221B Sherlock is in Pain
by casandhistrenchcoat
Summary: Sherlock is a very famous music engineer and has been hired by Disney to create a soundtrack for their new Disney movie "Ancient". It's through his work that he meets John Watson and has to live with the slow, painful experience of falling in love with someone unattainable.
1. The Meeting

**The title for this fic was inspired by my favorite Elsanna fic "R9K ElsaisSuffering" and the idea of voice actors was inspired by mad_lori's "Performance in a Leading Role". I used my knowledge of musical instruments (which is extreme since I play about seven of them) to create an environment from Sherlock's perspective as he effectively falls for John Watson.**

**For those worried about the rape/noncon tag: there's mild dubcon involved in the fic, but nothing goes further than a few kisses. I put the tag on their because I wanted to make sure every thing is covered on base, even if nothing serious happens. There is for sure an aftermath of the event.**

* * *

Sherlock sat perched on his custom carved, rich, dark mahogany piano bench staring at the empty lines on a page he prefers to call scales. He'd been sitting and staring, hoping to find some form of inspiration for the love song he'd have to finish by the due date of Friday. It's Thursday.

This love song is the last one he has to write of a set of eight and seems to be causing the most problems creatively. Papers littered the carpet around the feet of the grand piano, rustling as Sherlock continued to shift his feet in impatience. Usually, the movie soundtracks he worked on were filmed and edited already, so he could filter in the emotions of the actors and pour it into the music. He had a knack for adding just the right touch to the musical score, which Disney studios had quickly picked up on and offered him a huge job for Disney's next animated film: _Ancient_. It's been a different dynamic so far, working out the musical score and lyrics before animation's finished. Thankfully, his job still requires him to work on the soundtrack after editing, but so far writing the lyrics has proven to be quite the challenge.

Frankly, it's due to his lack of knowledge in the area. Sure, Sherlock knows well enough how to manipulate someone's emotions through music, how to make someone melt with a pull of the bow across violin strings, or how to make a character appear villainous or heroic with a simple melody on the piano, but writing lyrics to his own compositions that require at least _some_ knowledge on the feeling, is way out of his depth. He'd been lucky he'd gotten where he is at all. The girl who lives next to him, Molly, had been kind enough to explain to him what it felt like to be in love, although she'd huffed and left quickly when he mentioned anything having to do with her husband, Lestrade, Detective Inspector for the metro.

A scowl formed on Sherlock's lips as he raked his brain once more for inspiration, _any_ inspiration, and drew a blank. With a growl, he slammed both hand down on the keys of the keyboard, resulting in a horrendous sound, and stood staring down at the empty scales. A swift _plunk_ from closing the key cover ended his failed writing session. In a fit, Sherlock roughly picked up his violin from the stand and fumbled to rosin the bow before pulling a long _E_ from the strings. The bow sailed over through notes of a song he'd composed some time ago for a woman he once knew; it was his way of giving her thanks for introducing him to a desperate manager who was in dire need of a sound engineer. The Woman, Irene, had given him a small smile when he handed the flash drive to her with the song on it. That was the last time he'd ever considered someone else could have feelings for him and that he could possibly have feelings for someone else since his Uni days.

The bow pulled a sour note from the violin and Sherlock scowled as he was snapped out of his bought of nostalgia. He set the violin back down on his stand along with a slam of the door in frustration and attempted to calm himself down. Guests were coming. Well, at least _a_ guest was coming over to his house in an hour. Everyone working on the production had been rodgering him for a 'sneak peak' of his work, which he declined each time with growing irritation. Tonight, however, was important. It was his prescheduled meet with the voice actors and actresses. Meeting the people bringing characters on screen to life was Sherlock's best bet at figuring whether or not their voice range would suit the song, or whether or not the song would suit the character. Typically, he scheduled these at least two weeks before his deadline, which allows him ample time to fix up anything or rewrite songs. This time, however, none of the voice actors had been cleared in their schedule to meet with him, until three managers had called him in the middle of a creative stupor to inform him that their client could meet on Thursday. That was last Friday.

They'd all agreed to meet at his home, since they'd blatantly disregarded the attachment on the email that read _my deadline for recording is 2/7/2014, in regards to this set date, I would like to meet all voice actors two weeks prior_. Sherlock scowled as he crossed his parlor room into the sitting room. He skimmed the shelves close to the telly and picked the movie he came across first that was produced by Disney. The screen lit up in swirls of light blue, white, magenta, and some subdued purple as the title screen of the movie flashed across the screen. A hymn of voices accompanied the intro, and Sherlock absent-mindedly joined in, humming each note and shuffling through the sheet music in the folder he'd prepared for today's gathering.

Two knocks at the door. Looks like the first client's arrived twenty minutes early. Sherlock let out a small sigh and plastered a fake smile on his face before making way for the front door and welcoming in his first guest. Standing on the other side of the door when he opened it was a man, on the short side, 5'7" at most, blonde hair flecked with silver. Sherlock stepped to the side and welcomed the man, John as he introduced himself, to his humble abode. John followed his lead around the tour of the main floor. Sherlock trailed into the sitting room expecting a blonde head tailing him, but was surprised to see he'd lost the other man somewhere in the house. He backpedaled; ready to reprimand the blonde man for not following him, when the first note of his most recent completed melody filled the air. _Aspiring Queen (Reprise)_ swarmed his ears in a concoction of beautiful, evil, and heart wrenching, exactly as it was intended to. Sherlock followed the sound to the parlor room and found John sitting at his grand piano, eyes focused on the sheet music and swaying softly in time with the song, playing.

Two things skidded across his mind.

_One, John Watson is nothing like the boring and dull voice actor I expected him to be. It's new and somewhat exciting. Two, what the hell makes him think it's okay to just play someone's grand piano without asking first? That takes courage, but I should really get him to stop._

His mind was telling him to yell at the blonde man for playing his second most prized possession, but his body wouldn't oblige the movement. In a fit of stubbornness, Sherlock's feet were adamant about remaining where they were. With a slight sigh of defeat, he leaned against the doorway to the entranced and watched. John's fingers were a bit stout, but moved gracefully across the black and white expanse before them. The melody Sherlock composed seemed to grow more beautiful as the song went on to a point that he wasn't sure if this was the song he'd wrote for Aztec princess _Eztli_ about taking the throne by force from her sister. John added a little adlib at the end, seemingly the perfect touch to the once thought perfect melody. The blonde man sat, staring at the sheet music as he dropped his hands back into his lap.

Sherlock stalked silently towards him, bending down so their heads were at the same height. "That was brilliant." He whispered.

John flinched, startled and visibly shaken by Sherlock's closeness. No doubt his manager had told him about how hard he is to work with. Sherlock's plastered smile melted into a gentle, real smile and he took the pencil off the stand to add the final adlib that John had used on the song. "I didn't know you played." Sherlock said as he leaned up after finishing his haphazard scribble of notes on the sheet music. John shrugged. "You never asked."

An unrecognized feeling passed through Sherlock as he smiled at the blonde man before blurting, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" A weird combination of shame and confidence settled in his chest and he averted his eyes from John to stare at his violin instead. He felt movement come from beside him, but he didn't look at the mop of blonde hair beside him.

"How did you know? I haven't told anyone about…" John trailed off, seeing as Sherlock hadn't turned back to respond. Sherlock bit his lower lip, contemplating between telling the other man his deductions and face the consequences of losing someone so interesting, or ignoring the question and brushing him into the sitting room. "Sherlock?" John squeaked from beside him. "Are you okay?" He took in a deep breath before steeling his features and whirling around to face him. "I know you're an army doctor who's recently been invalided. The tan on your hands is the first clue, combined with the fact that your tan doesn't spread past the wrist, so uniform. Army. The way you held yourself when you entered the room said trained, and recalling how you mentioned Bart's hospital was different from your day under your breath when we passed through the hallway with the picture of myself there, says trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Your therapists thinks your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid, which says the injury was traumatic. Possibly a comrade's death, more likely a life-threatening situation with injury involved elsewhere. Watching you walk through the house, you unconsciously defend your left shoulder and make sure not to overuse it, even though you're clearly left handed. So, shoulder pain. Army doctor invalided home, psychosomatic limp, and a traumatic experience, leading to a gunshot wound. Where has there been heavy fighting and gun use? Afghanistan, or Iraq?" Sherlock finished off with a click of his tongue. He braced himself for the usual lashing and screaming that was about to come and fully expected John to just leave. The defense he'd built up against what the blonde haired man's response would be held up for as long as he could fake it, awaiting the blow to his chin.

But none came.

Sherlock opened his eyes, unaware he'd shut them so tightly and looked at the man sitting next to him. John was catatonic. No movement, hardly any breathing, no blinking. _Did I break him?_

John swallowed roughly and stared up at Sherlock, clearing his throat before replying. "That…was…amazing." Sherlock was taken aback. John was amazed. There wasn't even the slightest trace in his face to suggest he was mad. The blonde haired man was truly astonished at what he'd said. Confusion took over Sherlock's mind as he processed the three words just spoken. "Do you really think so?"

The confusion spread over John's features, mixing with the widespread awe. "Of course it was. It was absolutely amazing." Sherlock stared down unblinking at John until another knock at the front door shook him back from the depths of his mind palace. He left John without another word and approached the door, opening it to reveal a woman, maybe 5'5" at most, blonde hair, lavender shirt, standing on the other side. Her smile widened as Sherlock stepped to the side and closed the door behind her. "I'm Mary, one of the voice actresses-"

"Obviously." Sherlock remarked as he ushered into the sitting room. He was about to leave and fetch John, but Mary clasped a hand around Sherlock's wrist before he could leave. "Is John here yet? He told me he'd manage to find his way here on his own, but…I'm just worrying for no reason." She said.

Sherlock shook off her hand from his wrist as he made way to leave the room. "He's in the parlor room." He informed her with a flick of his hand in the direction. The third and final knock came from the front door and he was grateful for the excuse to leave. Mary seemed sweet so far, but his experience has always told him looks can be deceiving. He swung the door open quickly, glancing at the client for all but two seconds. She's tall, maybe 5'8", brown haired, purple sundress, and smiling oddly. "Hello, Sherl. It's good to finally meet you. I'm Janine." The woman said, sticking her hand out. Sherlock took her hand and gave it one firm shake with a scowl. He hadn't been called Sherl since he was a boy, and the name had never been used in good light. "Well, Janine, everyone's in the sitting room. With you here we can get started on the overview." Sherlock stated blandly.

He led Janine into the sitting room to find Mary sitting on John's lap and giggling. Something in his stomach twisted. It's not that he didn't like seeing Mary like that, but he didn't like seeing Mary like that. Janine sat down in the chair opposite the telly and placed her chin in her hand. Sherlock was focused on the sight of Mary and John, unaware he was letting his feelings show on his face. John noticed from the couch and instantly closed his mouth, worry taking over. "Are you all right, Sherlock? You're all red." John said, concern lacing each word. Sherlock relaxed his face and fought off his feelings of jealousy. There's one deduction he hadn't been expecting to make today. He nodded in response to John. The quicker he got this over with, the better. "I'm fine, thanks." Sherlock said as normally as he could manage. He really needed to get a hold of his emotions. Fifteen years of work almost destroyed because of this one man he'd met but today.

Regaining his composure, Sherlock inhaled and exhaled slowly before picking up the file of papers. "Here's the breakdown. This pile has Eztli's songs, this pile has Erendira's, and this pile has Zuma's." He explained handing the separate piles towards Mary, Janine, and John. "I have the original sheet music in the parlor room. I'll play your songs with a sample of how I feel it should be sung, and then you'll sing." Sherlock stated as he moved from the sitting room to the parlor room. "Janine, we're starting with you."

He sat down on the edge of his bench and moved _Aspiring Queen (Reprise)_ out of the way, replacing it with _Battlebourne_. Sherlock let go of the feeling of the others in the room, focusing solely on the piece he was playing, and let the lyrics flow out of him.

_In a far off place_

_There's a wide gold space_

_With a great warm welcome_

_That is waiting for me_

_Over hill_

_Where the soldiers lay_

_Is where my heart is saying_

_That's where I'm meant to be_

_I will fight my fate_

_I'm not a measly girl_

_I will prove my weight_

_I'm not to be ignored_

_I will find my way_

_To that perfect place_

_I would do most anything_

_To prove I'm battle born_

_I will train for war_

_I'll be the best there's been_

_I will show them wrong_

_If I can be strong_

_I know every step_

_Will be worth the trip_

_I would do most anything_

_To prove I'm battle born_

_I will rise in fire_

_From the ashes I revive_

_I will show my hand_

_I won't back down tonight_

_That princess is gone_

_A soldier in her place_

_I would do most anything_

_To prove I'm battle born_

Slowly, he played the last few notes. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he gazed at the three people staring at him. Immediately, he shut out any emotion he had and became defensive. "What?"

Everyone in the room had teary eyes. Janine and Mary left the room with a few gasps, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the parlor. Sherlock frowned. "What? What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" He panicked. John let out a small laugh and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You did fine." He responded. Sherlock laced his eyebrows in confusion. "Then why did they leave? And why were they crying?"

John actually chuckled this time. It was a deep sound that seemed to roll off his tongue and emanated from his chest, which Sherlock reveled in. "They left because they wanted to dry their eyes without ruining their makeup." John sighed. "They cried, because…well…when they, when _I_, watched you sing, it was like you just shut the world out. You were so passionate in that moment. It was like watching a picture show of your emotions as they all cleared out and settled in a soothing calm, like watching a force of nature settle into a calm breeze."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's a very…romantic way of putting that."

He shot Sherlock a look filled mock venom. "Shut up." John laughed from his seat. Sherlock's lips pulled up into a genuine smile as he chuckled along with him.

His mind tried to find a place to store everything he'd picked up on John Watson since this afternoon and began categorizing all the information into subgroups for organization. John's made him laugh, something Sherlock hasn't done in over five years of clawing his way to the number one slot in sound engineering. He's made him _feel_. _Really_ feel. Feel in ways he hasn't felt in ten years, since Victor. Feel in ways he thought he'd forgotten.

His smile stayed even after they were done laughing and Sherlock could feel the light in his eyes. No one had ever told him how good it'd feel to enjoy someone's company. Sherlock's eyes locked with the blue ones across from him and he felt the world blur around him. All those books he'd read about getting lost in someone's eyes had seemed so far fetched and 'love sick' that he'd never believed he of all people would actually do it. But there he was, staring into the eyes of someone else and losing touch with the world around him. _How much luck will it take to play this off as platonic?_

Mary returned first, breaking John out of the spell that had befallen the two. She laughed at the dazed faces before her. "You both look like you've just returned from another universe."

_You could say that._

John smiled at Mary as she took a seat on his lap and threw her arms around her. Sherlock's smile receded a bit. He needs to pull himself together. Going 'love sick puppy' for John Watson would not do. Anna walked in next, holding extra tissue in hand as she took her seat. "I'm ready to do the run through of the song." She sniffled.

Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgement. He stretched his fingers getting them ready for their dance and let everything float from his mind as he played while Janine sang. Six hours of work, and everyone was prepped and ready for turn in the next day, except for that one love song that still eluded him. "It's been a long day, I'm turning in. Night guys." Janine waived as she left. Mary stood near the door with John. Sherlock could barely make out what they were saying from the hall, not that he was eavesdropping. "Are you going to make it home okay? It's awfully late." Mary whined. John chuckled, "I'll be just fine, Mary. Go get some rest." She gave the blonde man a small smile, and Sherlock could feel the heat of jealousy swell through his veins, practically bursting the back of his neck in red. John waved Mary off before closing the door and turning back towards Sherlock. His small smile had dropped when he noticed how red the taller man was. "Whoa, Sherlock, are you ok? You're all red." John said his words laced with concern.

Sherlock blinked twice at the smaller man. "I'm fine," he lied. John narrowed his eyes at him but didn't question further, instead choosing to sit in on the couch in the sitting room. When Sherlock made no movement to follow him, John motioned for him to come over. As if he couldn't tell John had wanted him to follow the first time. A bit reluctantly, Sherlock walked over and sank into the couch with one cushion separating them. A thick silence spread between the two. John pursed his lips before attempting to cute the tension.

"So, were those all the songs for the movie?"

"No."

"But isn't your turn in date for the songs tomorrow?"

Sherlock turned towards John, surprised that he'd remembered the date specified on the email, let alone even read for himself. "I was planning to write the last song after everyone left," he conceded. John smiled at the lanky man. "Maybe I can help." Sherlock watched him pick up one of the blank pieces of sheet music and snatched a pencil from the side table. "What type of song is left to write?" He queried.

"A love song."

John subtly flinched before writing the words 'love song' in the top left hand corner.

"Got a title?"

"I don't name my songs until after they're written."

John glanced at him. "Makes sense. You could say it's less…treble." Sherlock couldn't help a deep chuckle at the corny pun. _Only John Watson._ "That was an incredibly bad joke," he replied. John only laughed harder at Sherlock's response, making his face turn scarlet and resulted in his laughter becoming a hoarse, gasping noise. "It made you laugh, though." John retorted once he composed himself.

"Out of pity."

The laughter died down from the blonde man and looked at him. A comfortable silence fell between the two, and Sherlock indulged himself with little dances of his eyes over the brilliantly tanned expanse of John's skin. He'd lost his wits in the little lines near John's eyes, when a soft tap on his forearm returned him to reality.

_Fuck. I did it again. Why do you have to be so enticing? Why can't you just be dull and ordinary like every other voice actor I've worked with? Why are you so interesting? Why you?_

The shorter man was staring at Sherlock with a concern and confusion laced expression before murmuring a soft 'Sherlock?'

_All right, don't fuck this up. You'll be lucky if he even stays for the rest for the rest of the night, let alone want to visit again. By god, don't fuck this up._

"Sorry, I was just…" He trailed off, leaving half of his sentence hanging for lack of a good answer. _Just what? Just committing the lines around your eyes to memory? Drinking in the warmth of your freshly tanned skin? Losing touch with the rationality that I hold above everything else?_

"It's…fine. It's all fine." John said. Thankfully, he dropped the subject of Sherlock's awkward dance with his diction and returned to the sheet he held in his hands. "So, this love song, who is it being sung by and what's it about?"

"It's…uh…" _Stop being a total blubbering dick for once and pull yourself together._ "It's for Erendira and Zuma. The premise of the song is somewhere along the lines of 'love at first meeting'. The regular Pixla nonsense." He managed.

John smiled. "I think the term's 'love at first sight', Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked at John, for the first time in a long time being lost at a loss for words. _Say something, idiot._

"Right." He stuttered. With quick thinking, he cleared his throat and grabbed the pen on the table next to him. "I was thinking the first line would sound something like_...Days on end, training under starlight/Days on end, living out a dream…_" John nodded with approval. "I like it. It has a sincere feel to it. Go on."

Sherlock looked at John, panic concealed behind his eyes. "I don't know. That's all I've gotten so far." John processed his words. "Have you written anything about love before?" He queried.

"Love? No, not really my area." He lied. _It's not a complete lie. At least there's enough truth to it that it won't raise any red flags._

The blonde man glanced at him before nodding. "I see. I guess I can, uh, walk you through it, or something. What makes you feel…loved, I guess?"

_The way you looked at me after I sang for the first time today._

"I've only ever felt loved once, and it was years ago."

John's eyes went all soft and he smiled. "Describe what it felt like to me. Tell me what happened."

_Fuck. Victor is not a wound I want to pick at. Pull yourself together and scrape something together. You've got tons of untouched poetry books on the shelves. Say something, you dumb fuck! You can't be a total fuck up 24/7._

"It was…uh…"

_Think. Say something. Anything._

"It was…it was brilliant. I'd felt like I'd finally found someone who I could share my life with, and the way I was raised to think didn't matter anymore. He…Victor…made me feel like I could lose my mind tomorrow and I'd still be the happiest person." Sherlock admitted.

_That was good. That should pass. John won't question that._

John's eyes widened, and Sherlock could see them gloss over with tears that threatened to spill. He shifted in his seat, awaiting a response from the shorter man. Seconds that felt like hours passed before he spoke. "Sherlock," John began, "that was beautiful. Utterly beautiful…Victor…he mad you so happy. What happened?"

_What? Did he ask about Victor? _The _Victor Trevor? What happened? Beautiful? What?_

Sherlock stared at John, refusing to blink.

_Stupid, he's going to think he broke you! Just answer him. He wants to know. Maybe you can finally let him go._

He opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. "Sorry, that was inappropriate of me to ask. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

_Fuck! Just tell him!_

"No, it's…it's fine." Sherlock mustered. "I met Victor at Uni about ten years ago. He was…pure genius. I was attracted to his intellect and worked in his lab for a few months before we took our relationship up a notch from colleagues to friends. We started hanging out at his place. He told me, one day, that he couldn't stop thinking about me. I told him the same. In the span of sixth months we went from colleagues to friends to lovers. It made me feel…high, in a sense. He was smart and kind and all bronzed skin. It was amazing, but…"

A hand found its way to his shoulder. Sherlock glanced over and saw John watching him intently, a tear spilling down one cheek.

"There was this day, two years after our relationship, to be precise, that he seemed distant and depressed. We were laying in my dorm when he got up and got dressed. He walked over to me, kissed my nose, and said, 'Sherlock, I love you, you know that, but I can't stay with you if you don't love me.' I was so…confused. And scared. I looked at him and said 'I do love you.', but he only shook his head and said, 'You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. You put a lot of dedication in to your work, and I can't compete with that type of love. You'll be going places some day. I'd always hoped I'd be there to see you reach the top.' It was the last time I ever saw him." Sherlock finished. He felt…better. It felt good, actually, to tell someone what he's been hiding for years.

_Stop being so sappy. You're Sherlock fucking Holmes. Pull yourself together._

Suddenly, John's arms were around his. He was hugging him. Tightly.

"John." Sherlock wheezed. The grip around him loosened enough for him to breathe.

"Sorry."

_What the fuck is that? Are you smiling? You fucking idiot! Why don't you just tell him he should let you suck his dick while you're at it?_

"It's fine."

John released him with a pat on his back and picked up the paper again.

"So, the love song?"

* * *

**The movie Sherl puts on is "Frozen" because I have an unhealthy addiction :)**


	2. Starving

Sherlock blinked at John before the knowledge of the past seven hours passed through his mind.

_Right. Love song._

"I…"

_Think, stupid! You're a bloody genius, think! Don't leave him waiting on your incompetence._

"I…you know what, I'm actually exhausted. Long day of touch ups, practice, and work. I can talk to the producer tomorrow about getting an extension on that song…"

_Not that! Don't make excuses! Ask him for dinner. Say it. Just, say it. Let. It. Go._

"Would you, uh, would you like to have dinner? I know a fantastic restaurant just a few streets over. We can walk there, or I could call a cab, if you'd prefer for your leg."

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, willing himself not to blabber on any longer and waited for his counterpart to reply. John set down the mostly blank piece of sheet music and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I'd have to see if Mary was…you know what? Yeah. I'd love to have dinner. It's lovely outside tonight let's walk. Shouldn't be too hard on my leg." He concluded, heaving himself up from the couch and pulling his mobile from his pocket. "I'll text her so she doesn't worry about my whereabouts."

John tapped away at the screen, eyes determined on whatever message he'd decided on telling his girlfriend.

_Probably just a simple "I'll be home late" or whatever it is the dull say to qualm the other's worrying._

Sherlock let John be for a few seconds as he entered the kitchen to grab his keys and wallet. When he returned, John was standing with his phone shoved in his pocket and shirt wrinkled from the arduous sitting period. He smiled at him as he entered, placing both hands behind his back when Sherlock returned the gesture. "Got everything?" John asked. He nodded at the shorter man and motioned towards the front door, locking it when after both of them had stepped out of the foyer. They walked a few minutes in a comfortable silence, exiting Sherlock's neighborhood and into the regular streets.

_Now's your chance. Get to know the man John Watson is._

"Where are we going?"

The honey like voice rippled in Sherlock's mind, warming him as the air blew cold around them. "A fairly popular place called Angelo's. They specialize in Italian cuisine." He responded, pausing to press the button on the traffic light next to the crosswalk.

John's eyes practically popped out of his skull. Sherlock had to instill ever ounce of willpower he possessed to refrain from laughing. "Angelo's? Like, _the_ Angelo's? Just off West Riverside Drive?" He asked, awe emanating from every inch of him.

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, that one. They have some more reasonably priced meals. I'm surprised you knew where it's at, considering how little time you've spent here."

_Fuck. You will never learn to shut up, will you? How are you casually going to explain that you effectively deduced his military service was for Britain?_

The awe in the other man's eyes deepened, taken aback by Sherlock's passing comment.

"How did you-"

"Your accent hasn't been as affected by America as your girlfriend's and, as it is similar to mine, leads me to believe that you are from Britain. Since Mary's accent has been slightly more affected than yours, it's not a far leap to make to say she moved her while you were overseas, waited for you to return, you became invalided, and now here you two are after your coming home from Afghanistan. The only thing I can't work out is how you two got into acting. America has a cutthroat industry, especially in voice acting." Sherlock remarked, words pouring out like liquid.

John crossed the street in silence alongside Sherlock, remaining quite until the restaurant was in sight.

"London."

"I'm sorry?"

John kept his gaze straight ahead of him. "London. It's where I'm from. I wanted to become a doctor and my family didn't have enough money to support my tuition, so I signed up for training with the army. I met Mary while I was studying and we hit it off. She and I moved in together two years before I was deployed, and in one of the letters I got in Afghanistan, she wrote about how her acting career had taken off and she needed to move to America. Well, Los Angeles really. I was shot and got invalided back to London. I only had two days to gather my things before I was flown out..."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't form any words.

_Respond to him, dick. He obviously wants to talk to you. This is what you wanted, right? To open John Watson up and dissect what makes him tick? Say something to him._

"You don't like it here. America isn't the same as England." Sherlock murmured, internally berating himself for saying such a thing.

_Really? You couldn't take two seconds to think about the repercussions of your words? Way to rub salt on the open wound._

"Yeah. I like it out here, god help me, I do, but…it's not the same."

"I know what it's like."

_What?_

John finally looked at him, face eerily blank after the evening's dishing of awe. "Really?"

"I understand what you're going through. It was how I felt when Mum uprooted our whole family when I was younger and brought us here."

_Where did that come from? You haven't admitted to anyone that you've felt that way. What are you doing? Stop, now._

Sherlock's mind was spinning in thoughts of fleeing the situation, chest coiling in tight knots of anxiety, but the man adjacent inspired a long forgotten courage somewhere inside him. He pulled open the glass doors, feeling the rush of cooled air and cigarette smoke blow through his curls before responding. "When I was ten, my mother and father decided to move here to America so I could flourish in the numerous symphonies out here. They'd wanted me to be the next Bach. For a while, it's what I'd wanted too, but dreams die, and there was nothing I could do to quench the need to return to London."

The blonde man nodded in understanding, and Sherlock continued on.

"When I was in my late teens, around nineteen or so, I transferred from Berkley University over to Cambridge on abroad study. I trained for field work in criminology, but settled down in sound engineering after tampering with an old mixer that Victor had left when he…"

He couldn't bring himself to finish the statement. A hand sat on his shoulder, moving in soothing circles and massaging the tensing muscle.

"You don't have to say it."

Sherlock smiled at him. Somehow, the Earth seemed to stop spinning on its axis. Everything was still and it was as if all the heat of the Earth seemed to surround John Watson and reemerge as the sincerity and fondness burning in the shorter man's eyes. All it took was this one elongated glance for his stomach to slosh and go weak in the knees.

_Oh, god I love his smile. Oh, god I sound like a regular fucking Disney movie. I am Sherlock Holmes. I can't fall for someone in one day. Is that what this even is? Love? No, it's infatuation. Difference. He's looking at me with those amazing blue eyes though. Either way, truth be damned, I'm royally fucked._

John cleared his throat, pulling Sherlock back into the bleak of reality. He brushed a hand through his curls in a thinly veiled effort to hide his awkwardness.

"Dinner?"

"Starving."

Sherlock pulled the door open for John and ushered him in. The restaurant was a bit on the small side, but what it lacked in space it made up in décor. Most of the walls were painted a pure black, with only one wall covered in red with intricate white designs swirling about. The other walls had circles cut into them with shelves in the middle, each adorning one small, white candle in the middle of the rich wood. A mirror was set inside each of the cut outs, giving the room an upscale, Hollywood feeling without much more than a simple paint job.

John stood with his mouth slightly parted, eyes darting around the room and never settling on one place to look. Sherlock found an odd sort of fondness settle over him. The other man was just so…cute. John stared at Angelo's as if he had never stepped foot in a restaurant this posh since he'd gotten to L.A. It was endearing, to say the least.

_Stop right there. You _cannot_ find someone's boyfriend endearing. Do you know how fucked up that is? Why can't you just be normal and find someone else? Why do you always fall for the unattainable ones?_

"How many?"

Sherlock shook his head, pulling his thoughts together and lacing his sloppy emotions in a tight bow of logic. "Just the two of us." He answered; motioning to the still star struck John. The waiter gave the two men a curt nod and lead them to a table, located towards the back but near the window that adorned a very of the traffic and anyone sitting in the outdoor seating area. John sat opposite Sherlock, taking the offered menus and handing one of them to him.

"Sherlock, it's good to see you again." The waiter introduced. "My name is Alonzo, and I will be your server this evening. Now, what can I get you two to drink?"

John casted a quick glance in Sherlock's direction before speaking.

"I'll just have a glass of water, thanks."

The waiter looked at Sherlock expectantly. Reluctantly, he fought of his usual Pinot Grigio request and settled on ordering a bottle of Pellegrino for the both of them.

"Anything you want is on the house, for you, Sherlock, and for your date."

John's head shot up at the waiter's statement. Sherlock, for the most part, brushed it off.

"I'm not his date." John growled out to the waiter. Pink dusted his cheeks and he stubbornly refused to look back at Sherlock.

Alonzo seemed to ignore John's vehement denial, offering the pair candles for the tables and leaving without waiting for their reply. John's face was a deep scarlet by the time he returned his gaze to Sherlock. It made his heart lurch somewhat to see him so flustered, smiling softly, but mostly downplayed it for his…_friend's?_...sake.

"Is he always like that?" John asked, picking the menu off the table and covering half his face with faint interest in the meals offered.

"Generally speaking, yes." He responded, pointedly avoiding the man across from him as his silent way of apologizing. Or so he hoped.

For a few minutes, the pair sat in silence. John stared intently at something on the menu while Sherlock fidgeted around in his seat trying to think of something to get the conversation started again.

_Say something, damn it! Why can't you use that awfully large brain of yours to think of something clever to say?_

"So, uh, John-" Sherlock began hoarsely, barely able to be heard over the clatter of the restaurant. "How did…you get into acting?" He winced at how painfully stunted his question was. So blatantly over trying like he was a bloody teenager on a first date.

John, thankfully, didn't seem to notice his slip up in conversation choice and set his menu down before looking at him in thought. It was truly something watching this man think. His thoughts were practically written on his face, gears turning and whistles blowing as he recalls the chain of events that have come together to synthesize his life.

It was kind of poetic.

"When I was young, maybe six or seven or so, my sister and I would always race down the stairs on Saturdays for the early morning cartoons that only lasted that day. It was during those days of watching Godzilla destroy Tokyo or Mickey Mouse sail a ship that I wanted to be on the screen. During the six days in between waiting for the cartoons again, I'd imitate most of the characters I saw on screen. I got so good that I won first place in a talent show for my Donald Duck impression." John responded with a soft smile that seemed to have a glow from the inside out. It made his heart stop.

_Stop imagining a young John, Sherlock. You're never going to get through being 'just friends' if you keep digging this hole for yourself._

"Do it for me." Sherlock blurted, mouth responding before his brain could process what was being said.

"Do what?" John asked, head tilting slightly to the right in curiosity. Damn his annoyingly innocent charm.

He felt a flush creep over the back of his neck. _Not. Good._ "The Donald Duck impression. I want to hear."

Impossibly, the other man's smile widened. "Well, prepare to be amazed." He said, waving his fingers as if he were a magician performing his opening act. John cleared his throat, taking in a deep breath when Alonzo showed up and effectively startled John into clamming up.

_Damn Alonzo and his efficiency. Damn this night. Damn both of these men._

"I got the candle for you," Alonzo said cheerfully, placing it in the centre of the table, "and your fettuccini alfredo. Let me know if you need anything else." He left the pair with a pat on Sherlock's back and disappeared into the kitchen.

John licked his lips at the steaming pasta in front of him.

_Oh god does he know how tantalizing that is? The saliva is shiny on his bottom lip and his pupils have dilated. Stop focusing on it, Sherlock. You're going to be in quite the awkward position if you have to walk out of here with a boner._

Sherlock averted his eyes, staring at the flicker of the small flame of the candle as he willed the arousal to dissipate from his veins. They sat in a comfortable silence, the sounds of the bustling restaurant wrapping both of them. John finished his mouthful of pasta and flicked his tongue along his bottom lip to lap up the sauce left there.

"What about you, Sherlock? How did you get into the music business? I mean, working for Disney isn't easy and quite a big honor." He said, glancing at the taller man while pouring himself another glass of Pelligrino.

Sherlock stared down at the blonde man, willing himself to not spill his life story to what was essentially a stranger in the span of two hours.

_Fuck it._

"A friend of mine from Berkeley told me that he found me an amazing agency for my violin playing a few days after I'd returned. Sam was a great companion during my years before the transfer and I was grateful he still looked out for me. He gave me the address and number to call them to schedule an audition over lunch before leaving with an emergency call from his older brother. I gave them a call and arrived at my scheduled time. They accepted me and I climbed through the ranks, easily becoming top violin player for the company, but it always felt so…forced to me. I was recording in a studio for a company album when a man had approached me about a movie he was making and asked if I could play the violin piece required for him. I obliged. The movie made my name as a composer in the film industry, but being a sound engineer took a long shot from a desperate director and an amazing friend of mine named Irene. Disney offered me this movie after the big hit of my last on the long shot I'd do great work." Sherlock murmured his reply, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the man opposite him.

"The long shot you'd do good? Sherlock, I've heard you play. There's no way in hell you wouldn't do good." John remarked, taking a swig of his water before setting the glass back on the table with more force than was truly necessary.

"I appreciate the words, John, but I have to be the best that I can for this movie. Disney would have my head if it didn't turn out well."

He watched the smaller man shift in his seat until he was leaning forward slightly on his elbows, deciding instead to relax back against his chair. "This was…nice. Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Sherlock, but I really should be getting home to Mary."

Sherlock scowled as he watched John fish his mobile out from his pocket and punch in the words for a text.

_Of course. He has to get home to Mary. Why would he spend a night in the guest room of a man that was essentially a stranger to him._

He left a few bills on the table for tip and stood, using his mobile to request a cabbie for John to take home. No sense in forcing him to strain his leg.

Sherlock stood in the brisk air, enjoying the sight of his breath on the frozen sky while he awaited the limited company of the former army man.

_Just once, can't you have any relationship with someone that you don't fuck up?_

John joined him shortly, hobbling on his cane and leaning slightly into Sherlock for balance. It was warm. And grounding. And everything Sherlock had missed these past years.

The cab pulled up within ten minutes. A new record for LA.

_Leave it to me to call a cab on the day they send a can out efficiently. Not nearly enough time to spend._

John pilled into the cab, waving Sherlock off with a slight smile and a brisk 'thank you'. He watched as the car sped down the street until it disappeared, taking the former army doctor with it. Sherlock sighed. Letting him go back to Mary was for the best.

_You don't believe that for a second._


End file.
